


Toil and Trouble

by bronson



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: #TeamVienna, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Expanded Universe, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, worldbuilding the royal families what up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronson/pseuds/bronson
Summary: Renard and Adalind have grown tired of running. Against all reason, they make a stand: keep their baby, stay in Portland, and carve out a kingdom for themselves, with hellfire to match their wrath. Or, an AU where Renard and Adalind raise their daughter, even if it means raising an empire to keep her safe.





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started watching Grimm on Netflix on a whim. Now my entire world seems to revolve around Grimm. Amazing. I'm currently at the start of Season 4 and spoiled myself by reading ahead. This fic is basically a re-imagined latter half of Season 3 because I wanted something different for Adalind and Renard when they finally reunited. And also Sebastien's death physically PAINED ME. Like, what the hell. I cared so much about him. 
> 
> I've also combed through the Grimm fics on AO3 and I noticed a pattern in the Renard-centric fics, where the earlier fics envisioned him as a kind of protector of Portland. Presumably, back when the fandom didn't know what royals were in this universe and what kind of royal Renard was, specifically. I wanted to explore that premise with this fic, even when he's revealed to be a half-zauberbiest bastard prince who has a chip on his shoulder larger than the entire Austro-Hungarian empire.

Sean Renard, for all of his patience, does not like being kept in the dark. He's waited more than three decades for plans to fall into place, for the Resistance to side with him, and for something to crop up that would counter-weight the burden of answering to a family that, to put it quite generously, doesn't even care for him.

This kind of waiting is different.

Sebastien has fallen off the grid; Meisner, in communicado, to throw off the scent; Adalind had just given birth; Viktor is on the move in Vienna.

Sean didn't survive in the police force without somehow juggling uncertainty with functionality. That's why he's in the precinct, in the middle of the day, trying to do his paperwork while his mind is going a million miles a minute. He’s elsewhere even as he’s stuck in Portland, focused as he is on what's happening on the other side of the world.

His fist clenches in a surge of frustration. Before he can help it, he'd already ruined a file he's supposed to be handing in later today. _This is useless._  With a grimace, he falls back in his chair and allows himself a moment to breathe. He feels a ripple of his _woge_ itching underneath his skin.

_No_ , he tells himself, and it usually works. He didn't survive this long, living a double life, without learning how to school his emotions. A headache springs in his temples for his efforts.

Just when he thought he'd have to break something to relieve the tension, his phone rings.

He checks the number. It's Meisner.

A lapse of judgment follows. He grabs his burner phone from his desk drawer before he glances outside the window  to make sure no one's watching him. Immediately, he dials the number.

An exhausted yet achingly familiar voice filters in through the other end. " _C'est moi._ "

"Sebastien.” Relief, a tremor in his jaw, makes Sean's eyes fall shut. “I’m glad to hear your voice.” He takes a moment to let out a breath. " _Ça va?_ "

"As well as can be expected," Sebastien replies.

"Adalind?"

"She’s here."

"And… the baby?"

A pause, and what sounds like a rustle of clothing. In his mind's eye, Sean is picturing Sebastien looking over his shoulder to check, just to make sure, that he's relaying the right information. "Your daughter is healthy. Safe."

_Your daughter._ Sean falls silent. It's the first time he hears it uttered with certainty. When Meisner told him of the birth, that the child was a girl, Sean felt the ocean of distance between them. Somehow, it had yet to be real. This time, there's no reluctance in Sebastien. _I have a daughter_.

But how can he be so sure? It pains him that there’s enough doubt to caution him, but not enough to keep him from staking his claim. His eagerness to call the child his is not lost on him. It’s unsettling, really, and he doesn’t know how to wrap his head around it just yet.

He already knows that this child is going to be his weakness.

Well-versed in Sean's silences, Sebastien clears his throat. "We’re expecting the Laufer, yes?"

" _Ouais_ ," Sean nods, then, almost as an afterthought that was slow in keeping him in check, " _Non_."

" _Non? Et pourquoi?_ Change of plans?"

Sean smiles dryly. "As our plans so often do."

"Meisner is expecting the Laufer."

"Meisner is needed for as long as he’s needed." A subtle reminder that Sean doesn't give a damn what Meisner thinks.

Truth be told, Sebastien is right. Sean had already contacted the Laufer. They've already sent their contact for a rendezvous, but hearing Sebastien on the other end of the line immediately changed the course. Sebastien is someone he can trust more than the Resistance. Even without their help, and as long as they're outside the castle walls, Sebastien will find a way back to him. They've gone through their contingency plans too many times for them to fail now.

"Has he overstayed his welcome?" Sebastien asks, and Sean can hear the frown in his voice.

"Even if he did, you’re no match against him."

There's a huff on the other line that sounds almost like amusement. "I’ll try not to be offended by that."

Sean shakes his head. "Not in your current condition."

Sebastien, rueful in his honesty, sounds like he's smiling. "Not even in my best."

"Then we’ll keep him around." They don't have a choice.

"Tavitian has sent a contact, I expect?"

Sean hums thoughtfully. "So he says."

Sebastien knows him well. "You’re having doubts."

"When am I not? The Resistance thinks it’s united but… There can be another Breslau in their ranks." Sean has yet to forget (and probably will never forgive) that the Verrat had been his welcoming party on his first night in Vienna.

"Adalind is comfortable with Meisner, and the child… she seems to welcome his presence as well."

Sean frowns. "The child?" He's confused. "She’s a newborn infant, Sebastien."

"She’s… different." A brief pause on the other end. Then, in a lower tone: "Quite frankly terrifying."

"Because she's a hexenbiest," Sean reasons, though a child only days old shouldn't be displaying her powers yet.

"That, and more."

Sean, not knowing how to understand that, just shakes his head. "Get them here. You know what to do."

"Switzerland?"

Sean nods. Switzerland, one of only a few neutral grounds that all families _try_ to respect, is always the escape route. The first one, at least. "The Laufer will be ghosting you every step of the way. How’s your mobility?"

"Impaired, but I’ll survive."

Good enough, Sean thinks with a grimace, but even his own reassurances fail to calm his nerves. "And Adalind?"

"Exhausted. She can’t run for long."

"Carry her if you have to."

"That’s what Meisner’s for."

"Precisely. The house in Geneva ought to be safe for anything you might need. I’d get you myself, but—"

Sebastien doesn't need to be told twice. "They’ll be watching you."

"More closely than they ever had in the past."

"Be careful." Both Sebastien and Sean know that this needn't be said. They've lived cautiously all their lives, the ever-present danger of fanged and clawed shadows dogging their heels has become, at this point, an intimate friend. Yet this time, they know it's different. A misstep would mean so much more.

"You too," Sean reminds him. "And Sebastien... Take care of them.”

"I live to serve, as you know."

"I know. Call me again when you get to the Swiss border."

 

 

* * *

 

 

They know where they’re headed, but it’s another matter entirely to head there undetected when Austria’s on lockdown from the families. Sebastien knows the protocol. Secure the borders, station guards at every entry and exit point, even if it means combing through the mountains and forests of the Austrian borders.

So far, however, they’re on the highway. Meisner’s focusing on nothing else but the road and though the unease has yet to allow them to rest… for now, at least, they’re safe. As long as they don’t stop moving.

A couple of hours in, they stop by the side of the road. Meisner inspects the car, finds a tracking device, and throws it over a cliff. They all know the Verrat wouldn’t be so stupid as to follow the signal to their deaths but they take perverse pleasure in the mental image anyway.

Adalind, sinking into the passenger seat in the back, had laid the baby on the seat next to her. She’s sleeping, her tiny fists loose around Adalind’s finger.

“Where are we going?” she asks. It’s not lost to her that Meisner and Sebastien look at each other first before she gets an answer.

“Somewhere safe,” Sebastien replies and offers no more than that.

Meisner glances at him. “The Resistance is sending us to Switzerland?”

“No. They’re expecting us elsewhere.”

For once in her life, Adalind would like a straightforward answer. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the front seats, and squares Sebastien with a look that says she’s tired, and hungry, and would very much like to know what’s going on before she loses it.

“Tell me everything,” she prompts him.

Sebastien, visibly torn between one truth and another (and if Adalind could hazard a guess, it’s between urgency and loyalty), acquiesces. “We must get you and the child to safety.”

“And you think Switzerland is safe for us.”

“Yes, at least for a little while. We won’t stay for long. Switzerland is open territory but that also means the families can conduct their affairs there.”

“Then _where_ are you taking us?”

Sebastien meets her eyes. “Portland.”

Adalind didn’t expect that. Portland, to the start of all things. “To Sean.”

“Tavitian agreed to this?” Meisner asks.

Sebastien shakes his head.

Meisner grits his teeth. His hands tighten on the wheel.

Adalind lets out a breath in disbelief. She falls back into her seat. The baby, as though sensing her mother’s alarm, fusses in her blankets. “Because going against the Laufer and the royals at the same time is such good news for me,” she says as she picks up the baby and cradles her close.

Sebastien turns to her. “I’m loyal to only one person, and to whatever side he falls… I fall with him.”

“He told me to choose a side.”

“And have you?”

“I don’t know.”

Sebastien is relentless. Better they settle this now than when they’re halfway across the Atlantic. “You want safety.”

“That’s literally all I want right now.”

Sebastien nods. “Well, he offers you that. Protection, in his territory.”

“His is not the only offer I’ve gotten, you know.”

Sebastien, Adalind is surprised to find, persists, but not without sympathy. He has bruises on his face, pain etched into the corners of his eyes. He looks as fatigued as she feels and yet, here he is, still brokering an alliance for a man who isn’t even there.

“I have known many masters in my life,” Sebastien tells her, his voice earnest in his honesty. “I’ve turned traitor just to survive.”

Adalind isn’t a stranger to the story. She’s lived it too, but she didn’t survive this long because she was easily swayed by empathy. “I’m sorry if I don’t see how you could possibly convince me to choose Sean over everyone else with this line of thinking.”

Sebastien, however, is patient. “Think of convenience. Sean is an easier master than any of them combined.”

Adalind scoffs. “Have you met him? He’s thrown me under the bus quite a few times.”

“All of that is true. But he is just one man. The Laufer, the Royals… everyone else… they are many. Too many strings and you’ll strangle yourself.”

Adalind, laughs snidely. “Sean isn’t one _string_. He’s an entire ball and chain.”

Sebastien just shrugs and turns away, settling back into his seat. “As I said,” he says, “The choice is yours, Adalind.”

He leaves him with so little to hold on to, and Adalind is used to that as well. She’s used to jumping into the unknown just because the abyss is a better alternative to whatever waits for her if she doesn’t keep moving.

Dread pits in her stomach. She looks down at her daughter and tries _very hard_ not to think about how the baby she’s fighting to so hard to protect is going to have the same life as her mother.

With a sigh, she holds her close. _Deeper and deeper we go._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Adalind must have drifted back to sleep. The ride has been uneventful thus far, and the monotony of trees and highway fly past through the car windows is enough to lull her into a temporary calm.

Distantly, she hears Meisner and Sebastien speaking in hushed tones in front. The radio is turned low, a mild buzz of classical music she hadn’t heard in years.

It’s early in the afternoon. The scene outside promises to be a good day. For a moment, she rests, and thinks of other good days, and wonderful afternoons, where a long drive like this could’ve just as easily been her and her friends, before they unknowingly entered a life that took its toll, driving up and down the Orgeon coast. A lifetime ago.

She closes her eyes and burrows into the corner of the car door, leaning against it. No more dreaming.

She hears Meisner’s voice. “Tell me, _mon ami_."

“Yes?” comes Sebastien’s soft reply.

“Tonight we’ll cross the Swiss border. When I park the car… or when we’ve stopped for rest… Will I find that,” and here Adalind imagines Meisner is referring to Sebastien’s gun, “pointed at me?”

Sebastien, inscrutable as ever, “What do you think?”

“I think the sides have changed without telling me.”

_You can say that again_ , Adalind thinks snidely to herself. She doesn’t _know_ Meisner, and the tragedy of a dead girlfriend in his past isn’t enough to earn Adalind’s trust. There’s so much she doesn’t know about the bigger picture, she’s starting to realize now. _What did I get myself into?_

Bit too late for a question like that, but it doesn’t help that just when she thinks she’s figured it out—there are suddenly more people involved, more organizations with different goals, more leaders that demand her submission.

Increasingly, she’s starting to understand just how ironic Sean wishes to divorce himself from this world, when in fact he fits right in. Sean doesn’t belong in Portland; he belongs _here_.

There’s a quiet pause. Adalind cracks open one eye to see if Meisner and Sebastien are still talking, or if they’ve noticed that she’s awake and listening. (They haven’t.)

Sebastien is looking at Meisner. “And where do you find yourself?”

Meisner, his eyes on the road, replies, “The Royals have done me great damage. If I turn my back on the Resistance, there’s no coming back from that.”

“I don’t envy your position.”

From her vantage point, she can almost see a respectful tenderness to their conversation. These are two people who have been here since the start, before she even dipped her toes in the deep end.

Meisner sighs. “What’s waiting for us in Portland? Our fight is not there.”

“It appears that it is. Or it will be.” Sebastien almost sounds unsure of himself.

“I can’t say I’m tired of running.”

“I am.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“All my life,” Sebastien replies, and Adalind hears it. A lifetime’s worth of exhaustion etched deep in his voice.

“Then you can run for a while more, don’t you think? Why stay with him?”

Sebastien only shrugs. “We fall between the cracks. We’ve been pulled into this because someone long dead had made the wrong choices and now we’re here.”

Surprisingly, Meisner finds humor in that. His chuckle is a deep rumble, tinged with disbelief. “That’s not an answer.”

“Well, this is not living,” Sebastien replies, a smile in his voice.

“I’m surprised you still have dreams of living a normal life.”

“I don’t, but…,” Sebastien replies, slowly, as though he’s only just starting to work this out for himself. “One can only hope… to make things better. Somehow.”

The hope in Sebastien’s voice is almost naive. If Adalind didn’t know better, she’d almost feel sorry for him, to think so much of a grand scheme that didn’t care for people like him, or Meisner, or Adalind.

She’s reminded that she’s on the run now not because of her actions. She’s not even remotely useful to the families at this point. They can always find someone else to fill her place, whatever that place is. They’re at her heels now because of _her_ , her baby, sleeping the sleep of the innocent safe in Adalind’s arms.

There are four of them in this car. If the Verrat were to somehow catch them before they get to safety, Adalind is sure that only _one_ of them will be taken alive.

Meisner throws back the question, sounding almost scathing in his anger. “And Portland is somehow better? I can disappear. So can you.”

“That’s what it means to be a spy, you know. Living in the shadows.”

“That’s what it means to live freely.”

“Potato, potato.”

Meisner’s laughter rings in the car, a surprisingly soothing rumble in Adalind’s ears. “I believe it’s potato, _potahto_.”

A chuckle somehow wrests free from Sebastien as well. It sounds strangled, caught off guard. “They’re all the same. What’s the difference between Viktor and Sean? Very little. They’re ruthless and ambitious. At least Sean is a master I know.”

Just like that, the laughter is gone. “That’s reassuring,” Meisner remarks dryly.

“Isn’t it?’


	2. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastien, Meisner, and Adalind make their way to Geneva. Some road trip levity is had. Sean and Adalind have a much-needed conversation. Also, exposition about royal families. Gotta love exposition.
> 
> Also, oops, this chapter was longer than I'd expected.

It takes them some twelve hours to cross to the Swiss border, if only because they took the long way around. Meisner said that they were expected in Zurich, where the Resistance had sent their contact. It was in their best interests to stay as far away from there as possible.

The scenery may not have been at the top of their list—it _is_ rather difficult to enjoy the road trip when they’re fleeing for their lives—but it _does_ help that the scenic route brought them south of Austria: to Italy. Venice, Padua, Milan. Around the feet of the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc.

They stop for gas somewhere between Vicenza and Verona. Meisner, thankfully, speaks Italian. They have a filling breakfast at the gas station, take five minutes to lean against the car and watch the traffic.

“Is this okay?” Adalind asks as she climbs out of the car, the baby in her arms. “To stop here for a bit?”

It’s not very reassuring how Sebastien takes a little while before he answers. He seems to be weighing pros and cons in his head and Adalind, already on edge, is  _this_ close to snapping him out of it.

“It’s a yes or no question, Sebastien.”

“Hardly anything is a simple yes or no in Europe, Adalind,” Sebastien bites back.

Adalind concedes to that. He’d know more about politics after all.

“But,” Sebastien relents, “the answer is yes. Yes, it should be safe. Italy is under the House of Bourbon and technically… Hypothetically… Viktor won’t do anything here without their permission.”

“Are they friends with Kronenberg?”

Again with the yes-or-no questions. There can never be _one_ way to explain the relationship of two Houses, let alone all seven together. It’s a chaotic and oftentimes convoluted network of who’s friends with whom, of which branch of the family currently holds sway over the others, of which territories are powerful, and which favorite grandchild gets grandma’s slice of the pie.

Though Sebastien has been dancing with the politics of royal families all of his, even he gets blindsided by the royals’ oftentimes fickle political decisions.

Though two World Wars had “ended” the era of world empires, imperialism is very much alive. Monarchs may no longer be heads of state, but royal families survive and, in many cases, _thrive_ in multitudes. With generations upon generations of heirs, half-heirs, and removed cousins itching to ascend to great power.

Sebastien wants to tell Adalind that, technically, Italy is a democratic state ruled over by a democratically elected president. _Technically_ , the Bourbons are recognized kings and queens of only _one_ country: Spain. _Technically_ , Austria and Spain are on very good terms. But not quite so technically, and following a world map from three hundred years ago with geopolitical boundaries of extinct and archaic empires, the Bourbons and the Kronenbergs have once shed blood and poured wealth into swathes of territories they both would like to claim for their own. This makes them enemies.

But somewhere along several lineages, after revolutions and dynastic hubris, after inter-marriages, fragile stalemates, and a treaty or two establishing diplomatic ties and declaring war, one cousin or another has brokered lasting peace between the two Houses.

By _lasting_ , of course, they mean _peace within this generation, because I’m not sure what my children think about all this_ _and what sort of trouble they’ll be up to long after I’m dead_. Which is a roundabout way of saying that ‘lasting peace’ ultimately means nothing.

Eric’s mother was the second daughter of the Duke of Calabria who, if things had gone his way (and if Italy hadn’t become _Italy_ ), would be ruling the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Also from the House of Bourbon.

Eric’s father, Frederick VII Renard, if his infidelity is anything to go by (and it is) doesn’t care for his wife’s family. If the King had married as he’d wanted, he would’ve allied instead with the Duke of Castro, a rival claimant to the Two Sicilies and some distant cousin or other of the Duke of Calabria. Also a Bourbon.

The Duke of Calabria and the Duke of Castro are not friends. Predictably.

(At this point, Sebastien thinks he may stand a better chance of communicating the answer to this yes-or-no question with the aid of a family tree. Or a diagram.)

And because this whole set-up isn’t complicated enough, Eric is a friend of Felipe IV, the young King of Spain. Rather, Sebastien should say that they were, at some point, classmates. And maybe that’s enough to assume that they’re friends.

Ultimately, this political landscape Sebastien knows better than the back of his hand, may, in the end, mean absolutely nothing. After all, Eric (who would’ve ascended as Frederick VIII), is dead.

 _Viktor_ is Crown Prince now, and he has his own network of enemies, allies, and friends, one of which is the Duke of Parma. This Duke, whose title is only that—a title—is Dutch, a member of the Dutch royal family. There was a time, however, when his father was a claimant of the Spanish crown. _Technically_ , all is well between the Duke and the King of Spain. _Not so technically_ , the Duke is an exiled member of the House of Bourbon and it falls well within his best interests _not_ to pursue his claim to the Spanish crown. He’s neither popular nor particularly welcome.

Felipe IV, true to the official statement of the Spanish monarchy, is not threatened by his cousin. But it also falls within his best interests to limit the Duke’s power and influence in the undercurrents of European politics. This has led to controversies, political _and_ personal, and both Spanish and Dutch _Verrat_ (both taking their orders from two members of the same family) waging a silent war in the gray, unclaimed areas between Spain and the Netherlands ( _especially_ France). Token skirmishes that have no other purpose but to _remind_ each other that the House of Bourbon—with its sprawl of rival claimants and titles of nobility—is never at rest.

In the end, Sebastien settles with: “No, they’re not friends,” and leaves it at that.

Before Adalind gets more from him, Meisner approaches the car with bags of take-away in his hands. He uses the trunk of the car as a makeshift table, laying out the boxes of pasta, bread, and drinks like a humble feast. For three people on the run, it actually kind of is.

Adalind can barely contain herself. She grins at the sight of food. Hot food. “ _Finally_ , my savior.”

Meisner smirks. “Probably not a good time to tell you that they didn’t have _pesto_.”

Adalind doesn’t seem to care and just digs in. She opens the takeaway box nearest her and bites into the first forkful of _gnocchi_ she could spear through.

(Meisner doesn’t have the heart to say that the _gnocchi_ ’s actually his. He just picks up the other box—pasta, and not his favorite kind—and eats wordlessly. Hot food, after all, is still hot food.)

As Adalind and Meisner have their fill, Sebastien is murmuring soft sounds of comfort to the baby, fussing slightly in her blankets. He’s juggling her with a tall cup of Coke in his other hand, struggling slightly with both of his hands full but Adalind and Meisner aren’t really paying attention.

For a breath or two, they’re okay. _This_ is okay.

Until Sebastien, always planning two steps ahead, casually says, “Rispoli’s the new head of the _Verrat_.”

Adalind, swallowing her nth mouthful of take-away _gnocchi_ : “And?”

“He’s from Italy.”

Meisner doesn’t even need to be prompted. Though Italy's not within Kronenberg jurisdiction, a _Verrat_ has other ways. More creative means to do his job, and do his well. “Time to go.” He forks up the last of his pasta, throws away the box, and climbs into the car.

Back on the road, Meisner and Adalind are a little bit winded from eating too much in such a short amount of time. Sebastien, meanwhile, is quietly taking his time with his own box of food, munching away in the front seat.

 

* * *

 

That morning, in Portland, is one of the most uneventful mornings Sean has had in the last few weeks.

Usually his phone wakes him up before the sun even rises because the morning’s early birds—the joggers, the students, the parents bringing their kids to school—have stumbled into a dead body or two and Sean needs to assign the case to his detectives in the department.

Today, Sean wakes up because of his alarm clock, which means he’s had some four or five hours of undisturbed sleep. A novelty he can’t squander, but a welcome one all the same.

He often tries to remember why he became a police captain in the first place, when the demands of the job are similar to, if not worse than, the demands of princely duties. At least when you’re a prince, you have swathes of resources at your disposal without needing to sign, counter-sign, and photocopy in triplicate the necessary paperwork to get things done.

His morning routine is precise and predictable, in stark contrast with the rest of his life.

A quick shower (cold, to wake him up) while a fresh pot of coffee brews in the kitchen. Check his messages; check his email; schedule routine meetings with the Chief of Police, the Mayor, and whoever else is knocking on his proverbial door. All this before he even puts on a tie.

 _Is it too late to get a secretary?_ Is a question that’s also part of his routine for the last five years.

For five minutes, just before he heads out, he takes his coffee (black, because _of course_ ), he stands by the large windows of his living room and stares out at the view of the city.

These five minutes, precious though they are, is often spent worrying and planning about things he can’t write on paper, and for which he can’t consult an immediate superior, a politician, or any of his detectives.

As a police captain, he has a job to do. And he need only to do it well, according to rules, laws, and, as much as he’s loathe to admit, bureaucracy.

As a prince—he’s both governed by rules and expected to break them. Repeatedly.

For the last thirty or so years, ever since he decided to plant his feet in Portland and bow to the wishes of the family in exchange for relative normalcy in his life, he’s been living this double life. Every day he wonders if this is the day he grows tired of it, when the double life finally takes its toll and his two worlds bleed into each other.

He thinks about the baby, hopefully halfway to Geneva by now. He still doesn’t know what the future holds. He only knows that getting the baby to Portland is the start of an uphill battle.

His mother… he owes it to her to spare a thought when he can. Where is she? What is she doing? Is she safe? Ever since they parted ways those many years ago, she’s been jumping from one city to another.

He’s told her, time and again, that she doesn’t have to do this anymore. She’s safe now that Sean’s given the family what they wanted. He’s obeyed their terms and promised his allegiance. The fact that he wears his father’s ring is proof of that.

 _Old habits die hard_ , his mother keeps telling him, with a smile on her face that says the frequent travel is as much for survival as it is for pleasure. In recent years, more for the latter than the former. Elizabeth Lascelles is a woman of high standards and a lavish lifestyle. She lives for the grand, the elegant, and the beautiful.

Sean thinks about Catherine Schade, rooted in Portland with her age written plainly on her face. It’s difficult to imagine her mother in such a state. Elizabeth is a Hexenbiest and, like a true Hexenbiest, touched with great beauty. Even then, she carries the grace of the French. The _ancien regime—_ the lavish, the opulent, whose downfall had been writ in the blood on their silks.

It’s little wonder, really, that the Queen despised her the most out of all of his father’s mistresses. Elizabeth Lascelles could have been queen, if she had wanted it.

For a quick moment, Sean’s tempted to call her (or at least _try_ to call her last known number). He wants to tell her that she has a granddaughter now. More importantly, he wants to tell her that he’s afraid.

Sean’s fortitude (and stubbornness) is not a Renard trait. It comes from years of living in fear, of hiding from the shadows that dogged at his heels. It comes from his mother, who could’ve given him up so she could live her own life in peace.

He needs her now, more than he ever did.

He’s wandering into uncharted territory and for the first time in years, he’s afraid of the consequences.

His phone rings. _Sgt. Wu_ , it says on the screen. He checks the time: 6:45 AM. He hasn’t even finished his coffee yet.

The brief five minutes is over. He lets out a breath, finishes the last of his coffee, and takes the call.

“Renard.”

Distractedly, he heads to the kitchen to leave his mug by the sink. Wu prattles on about a 911 call, a dead body found along the highway. It took years of practice for him to multi-task and process the details of a case.

Balancing his phone, pressed between his ear and his shoulder, he shrugs on his overcoat and snaps his briefcase shut.

“Yeah. Give it to Burkhardt and Griffin.” He bites back a smile at Wu’s sly _Who else, right?_ “I’ll be in at 8AM.”

“FBI called, by the way. They wanted to meet with you on a case that _may or may not be_ federal jurisdiction,” Wu adds.

“Which one?”

“The one we closed yesterday without their help,” Wu lets out a put-upon, world-weary sigh that only Wu has the dry humor to manage without getting on Sean's nerves. “Sometimes I think the FBI is a burden.”

Sean puts up a token fight. He’s still the captain. “Wu,” he admonishes half-heartedly. “Play nice with the suits.”

He can almost see Wu rolling his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

"Keep this up and you'll be employee of the month."

"Give me a raise and we'll call it even."  
  
"Get to work, Sargeant," he shoots back, but not unkindly.  
  
He ends the call and collects a folder on the bureau by the door. He checks it once: a deed of sale, signed, and a traveller’s check, also signed, attached to it.

As much as he’d like to call on someone else to do the work for him, Sean knows that he can’t. He makes his own choices, consequences be damned.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the ride to Geneva is uneventful.

It’s almost anti-climactic to cross the Swiss border without much fanfare to it. There’s a small sign that welcomes them to Switzerland, and that’s it. Adalind was expecting to be comforted, to breathe an ultimate sigh of relief as though bold yellow lines bisecting a highway is a force field that can keep the _Verrat_ and the families from picking up the scent.

She remembers what Sebastien had mentioned before. Switzerland is stubbornly neutral, bowing to no allegiance in particular. Not out of choice but out of necessity.

An open country, making it both the safest and the most dangerous. Families can still wander in and out of the Swiss border, without consequence.

“Look on the bright side,” Meisner says, not at all looking at the bright side. “It’s open season on us but here in Switzerland, we can also say it’s open season on them.”

It cheers them up for a little bit, even when they all know that limitless resources and manpower both make a gulf of difference between what the three of them could do and what Viktor most certainly _will_ do.

They make it to the outskirts of Geneva, in a nice neighborhood that reminds Adalind of the Italian cities they passed through on the way here. Restaurant signage tells her that they’re in a neighborhood called Carouge.

It’s relatively quiet, even in the late afternoon. Here and there, copses of tourists taking pictures, children and heavy-footed teenagers in tow.

Shortly, they drive up a winding road far from the shop-lined streets, the tourists, and the scenes of normalcy that _almost_ lulled Adalind into thinking that she’s here for a vacation. Almost.

The street opens up to an even quieter part of the neighborhood. On either side of her, detached houses hemmed in by well-kept hedges. A generous sidewalk where every now and then a cyclist overtakes the speed of the car.

They round a corner into a private street that fits snugly between two properties. She can almost pretend she’s back in Portland, if she doesn’t miss the towering trees that choke off the sky, or the damp quality to the air that envelopes Portland in what feels like a perpetual autumn.

They slow to a stop in front of a house, a small villa (in contrast with Vienna’s more stately homes), a well-kept garden opening out to the narrow street. Adalind can almost see a small family living here, as though at any moment someone would open the door and invite them over for tea after a long drive over.

Adalind climbs out of the car with the baby in her arms.

She looks up at the house, at the brick-red shingles on the roof, and the sheer white curtains on the windows.

It’s almost… quaint. Nondescript, but charming.

“Are we safe here?” she asks Sebastien as he pops open the trunk to get the (very few) bags they need to unload.

Adalind’s really starting to get tired of the question, but she has to know.

“So far so good,” Sebastien tells her, a bag of their supplies in one hand, and Adalind’s luggage in the other. “A Hexenbiest secured this house against anyone who’s unwelcome.”

A Hexenbiest. Before Adalind could check if any of the neighbors are around, she _woges_.

Instantly, through the eyes of a Hexenbiest, the house changes.

A light shimmer seems to envelop the entire house, a thin perimeter from the driveway to the roof, to what she imagines is the backyard at the back of the house. The taste of magic is like copper at the back of her teeth.

The garden is showing its age, grass unkempt, growing wild and spilling onto the concrete walkway from the driveway to the front door. Vines have crawled onto the walls. The windows, thick with grime.

She doesn’t like it this way.

She snaps out of her _woge_ with a quick shake of her head. Immediately, the house resumes its quaint, picturesque face. She sighs.

The baby fusses in her arms and Adalind looks down at her. Her eyes flash purple for a moment, her tiny face knit into a frown.

Adalind will eventually have to teach her how Hexenbiests are the masters of concealment. Decay lives in their bones, and their lives are dedicated to keeping it hidden.

Meisner approaches her from behind. She almost jumps at his voice.

“What did you see?” he asks.

“A house that’s been here a while,” she says plainly. She doesn’t like describing ugly things.

Sebastien walks past them. “Sean lived here,” he tells them.

Adalind raises her eyebrows in surprise. “When?” She follows him to the front door.

“A long time ago.”

“You go on ahead,” Meisner calls after them, before heading to the side of the house to check the perimeter.

“Do you have the key?” Adalind asks Sebastien as they get to the stoop.

Sebastien puts down Adalind’s bag on the floor before pressing his palm on the door. It creaks, slightly, like a great oak shrugging off the last of winter.

“ _I_ am the key,” he says, quite ominously, and Adalind almost wants to tell him that he can dial back the drama a little bit.

A click and a churn of what sounds like rusted metal quickly follows, snapping crisply in the air. Adalind doesn’t have to _woge_ to feel the slight shift in the magic. It ripples slightly, itching just underneath her skin.

The door falls open and Sebastien, without a moment’s hesitation, walks into the house.

Adalind casts one last glance outside before heading in after him.

She doesn’t need magic to tell her that the house has been untouched for decades. What furniture she sees (and there are very few) are covered with white sheets. She doesn’t know what she expected. If Sean had lived here, then he hasn’t been back for a very long time.

The dust is in the air, stale like time untouched by human hands. Though the light is filtering in from large windows, it still _feels_ dimmer somehow. Grim, dour, and neglected.

“We can’t stay long. We can just rest here for a little while,” Sebastien tells her before heading to the kitchen. “There should be clothes upstairs. For you.”

“I’m guessing he’s referring to _you_.”

Adalind jumps.

Meisner, appearing over her shoulder, throws her a slight smile.

“You have to stop doing that,” she snaps at him.

Meisner shrugs. “It’s in my skill set.” He shuts the door behind him, pockets the car keys, and gestures at the stairs at the end of the hall. “Need any help?”

“Yeah, uh,” Adalind shakes her head, trying to remember what she was about to do before Meisner came. “Can you get my bag? The baby’s things are up there.”

Meisner nods. “I can do that.” He lingers for a moment. “Do you have a name for her yet?”

“What?”

Meisner nods at the baby in her arms. “We can’t keep calling her ‘the baby’.”

Adalind sighs. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

Meisner looks sympathetic, softening his usually stern mien. “Maybe you’ll find a baby book up there.”

Adalind throws him a look. “The house doesn’t have a sofa but it has a baby book.”

“We’ve seen stranger things than a low-priority commodity in an unlikely place.”

He has a point.

 

* * *

 

 

She makes her way up the stairs (her feet making the floorboards creak at every step). The second floor isn’t much better.

A long hallway breaks off into three (or four?) rooms. Adalind tries to imagine picture frames hanging on the walls, but something tells her that while Sean lived here, they didn’t have the luxury of making the place their own.

Come to think of it, Adalind realizes, if Sebastien hadn’t told her who lived here, she probably wouldn’t have known. Is it a family? A bachelor? Some runaway bride or a starving artist? There are no paintings, no knick-knacks strewn about.

The house is as bare as the day it was built, give or take a grandfather clock she spotted downstairs, or a dining table that was lacking a couple of chairs.

She remembers Sean’s apartment. Fancy, impeccably clean. Almost impersonal, really, if not for the portraits on the walls, the books on the shelves. The smell of his cologne in every corner of the space. _His_ space.

In contrast, this house doesn’t seem to have much life to it.

Adalind chooses a random door and pushes it open.

 _This_ , she thinks, is a little more lived-in. There’s a four-poster bed in the middle of the room. Dusty, by the looks of it, but it still had a duvet and all of its pillows. A tempting picture, and Adalind has to fight the urge to burrow into those sheets and sleep for ten years.

A dresser against the wall still has small bottles of perfume. A hair brush, she spots, peeking between framed pictures.

She walks closer to it and picks up one of them. A framed picture of a random countryside. She checks the others: a picture of a building, another one of a bicycle. Adalind frowns. They look like stock photos, the kind of generic stuff they put in picture frames to invite potential customers to _please_ fill them in with something more memorable, something more beloved.

Taking a chance on it, Adalind _woges_. The room, unlike the house from the outside, stays quite still. The lights barely even flicker in acknowledgment of her magic. The walls are painted the same, the bed still dusty, the windows still grimy.

She waits for a moment and when nothing seems forthcoming, she starts to _woge_ back—until.

Here and there, like pages on a book slowly being turned, quiet touches of a private life revealing itself after so many years.

One by one, the pictures change. Here, a young boy in a school uniform standing in front what looks like the facade of the house. Another, the same boy with an older woman, likely his mother. They’re smiling, their eyes looking past the camera to whoever’s taking the picture. In yet another, the same woman, albeit younger in this one, in a grainier photo where she’s standing in the back row of a large group of people. Judging from their similarly blonde hair, the children sat in front, and elders seated in the middle, it must be a family. A very large family.

She’s snapped out of the moment by a knock on the door.

“Oh,” comes Sebastian’s surprise.

Adalind looks back at him, _woge_ and all, before looking down at her daughter.

“These might be your aunts, uncles, and cousins,” she tells her, holding up the family picture.

She thinks it’s a bit silly, showing a picture to a baby (and Adalind being who she is, she’s not shy about pointing out how dumb she thinks something is).

She doesn’t expect a response but the baby, surprisingly, gurgles in mild delight. The room rattles somehow without actually moving just as the baby’s eyes flash that strange, unnatural purple.

The picture shifts.

The faces move, as though smiling wider, as though Adalind is watching the very moment when the photo was taken. She watches as a brief flash of light—the flash of the camera, she guesses—flits in and out of the frame.

It rather feels like those quasi-3D pictures she used to fish out of cereal boxes, when looking at a picture at an angle showed her something different. A photo within a photo, mimicking depth and life.

Sebastien calls to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Adalind frowns, _woging_ back. Immediately, the picture morphs back to a generic photo. Her baby’s eyes turn back to green.

“N-nothing,” she says, still wrapping her head around what she just saw. “Anyway,” she clears her throat. “What is it?”

“Just checking on you. Did you find the clothes?”

“What clothes?”

Sebastien patiently gestures at the dresser. He pulls out one of the drawers. “These clothes.”

Adalind almost weeps at the sight. _Fresh_ clothes, or as fresh as a thirty-year old dresser can make them. “Oh, thank God.”

“They might be big on you, but, might lift your spirits, yes?”

“Yes, definitely yes,” she smiles, inspecting the carefully folded tops and pants squeezed into the drawer. “I guess these were… Sean’s mother’s clothes?”

Sebastien nods. “Madame Lascelles, yes.”

Adalind hands over the baby to Sebastien as she brings out the first blouse she touches.

“Shame they had to leave this house. It’s pretty.”

Sebastien brings the baby to the bed. He pulls out the duvet and lets it drop on the floor at the foot of the bed. The covers, thankfully, have been spared the dust of too many years of neglect.

“They were being hunted by the Queen,” Sebastien answers as he lays down the baby on the bed, unwrapping the blankets from her small frame.

Adalind watches him for a moment, smiling slightly at how Sebastien, closed-off and grimm, seems to move cautiously for the baby’s benefit.

“Europe is small for a grudge like hers.”

Adalind snorts. “And for a family like theirs.” She sighs. “This is going to be my life, isn’t it?”

Whatever home she finds will also be left unkempt and forgotten, much like this one had been.

“And you?” she asks him as she digs through the clothes. “Did you live here?”

“Near here. I lived in another part of the city.”

“Ah, you’re Swiss.”

The baby starts to fuss. Funnily enough, Sebastien, who’s survived far worse, steps back because he doesn’t know what to do.

Adalind just smiles. She throws back the clothes into the drawer and approaches the bed.

“Here,” she says, showing Sebastien how to handle the nuclear meltdown of a newborn child.

In soft whispers, she utters a hodgepodge of _There, there_ , _It’s okay_ , and _Don’t cry_ , in a tone as reassuring as she can make it without cooing too much. She lays a gentle hand on the baby’s chest, her touch light but confident, and pats her gently in a comforting rhythm.

Soon, the baby’s eyes are drifting shut.

“There’s no magic to that, is there.”

Adalind smirks up at Sebastien. “Mother’s touch is always magical.”

Sebastien concedes to that and moves to the other side of the bed. He gingerly lowers his weight, taking _great pains_ not to undo the so-called magic Adalind’s casting on her child. He leans against the headboard with a resounding sigh.

Adalind realizes that it’s the first time he’s seen him actually rest.

“I’m not Swiss, by the way,” Sebastien says, his voice low. “I’m French. My father was in the Resistance, under Frenay.”

Adalind pauses her humming to ask, “Who?” When the baby starts to fuss again, she clicks her tongue. “Days old and this baby’s already trained me to do what she wants.” Even then, she does resume her comforting whispers, petering out instead to an indistinct lullaby that she hums under her breath.

“Frenay’s one of the leaders. The Resistance is made up of different groups, all answering to different people. This is the only time they’re united under one person.”

“This guy, Tavitian.”

Sebastien nods.

Adalind is trying to piece the story together. “But you went back to the Royals.”

“I had to. They needed a spy.”

“So… you’re with them. The Royals _and_ the Resistance. At the same time.”

“So they say.”

“What do _you_ say?”

Sebastien lets out a breath. “I work for Sean Renard. I pledged my life to his cause.”

Adalind studies him for a moment. “You’re not Wesen, are you?”

Sebastien huffs. “With all due respect… I’m not. Thankfully.”

Adalind shrugs it off, clearly not offended. “You’re human but your loyalty to your Royal… That’s a Hexenbiest trait.”

“A human trait as well,” Sebastien argues.

“Sometimes.”

Sebastien shrugs. “I’m fulfilling an oath someone else made for me.”

Adalind smiles dryly. “Your father’s?”

Sebastien nods.

“Yeah.” It’s a familiar story. She remembers oh so sweetly _and_ bitterly her own mother’s hold on her and the choices she’s had to make for the both of them. “Funny how parents do that sometimes.”

They stay in relative quiet for a while. Within minutes, the baby’s already drifted off to sleep. Slowly, Adalind removes her hand. When the baby doesn’t stir, she lets out a sigh of relief.

“Finally,” she mouths. A small win for today.

She carefully moves closer to Sebastien, until they’re both sitting on the bed, side by the side, leaning against the headboard.

Adalind thinks she can fall asleep, just like this, even with the dust tickling her nose and Meisner _possibly_ starting a war in the front yard. She won’t even notice. She just wants to sleep.

Her eyes drift back to the picture frames on the dresser, the photo of the boy (presumably Sean) and the woman (his mother). Her brows knit thoughtfully.

“Were they happy here?”

Sebastien looks at her then at the dresser, following her line of sight. He doesn’t know what she’s looking at. It only occurs to Adalind that maybe Sebastien has never seen those photos before.

“Who, Sean and her mother?”

Adalind nods.

“I think they were. _Sometimes_ , they were. I remember…” he sighs and sinks back against the headboard. “... picnics. There were many picnics.”

Adalind chuckles. “Sean in a picnic. I can’t imagine it.”

“Madame Lascelles was… _is_ … devoted to her son. She wanted him to be happy.” Sebastien’s smile is almost sad. “It was a different time.”

The humor fades when Adalind realizes what Sebastien means by that. “When did they leave?”

“Sean was… around twelve, I believe? Thirteen?”

“They must not have been here very long.”

Sebastien thinks for a moment. “Long enough to create memories.”

Adalind realizes, with a dawning horror, that the same will happen to her. She’ll make memories and burn them to the ground, all because she _has_ to. Because she chooses to be strong for her daughter.

“They hunted him because he was Royal, you know,” Sebastien says, nodding at the baby. “Much like how they’re hunting your daughter. Royal blood in the right hands is a powerful weapon.”

Adaling answers wryly, “So I’ve heard.” Both Frau Pesch and Serafina literally fighting to the death over the baby had told her as much. “They must’ve known something I didn’t, though. To want her so badly.”

“Perhaps.”

“A Wesen royal, heir to a house that doesn’t have kids… she can solve a lot of problems.”

“Eric could’ve fathered bastards if he wanted to, like his father did. He didn’t have a Queen who would’ve been threatened by them.”

Adalind levels him with a look. “Mistresses could be just as vindictive, you know.”

“Touche,” Sebastien concedes.

Adalind, sighs, thinking out loud, “When was the last time that happened? A Wesen as a Royal?”

Sebastien thinks about it for a moment. “Successfully, without the Families shunning them? Henry VIII was the last one. He was a Zauberbiest.”

Adalind almost laughs, but catches herself before she accidentally wakes the baby again. “Explains the promiscuity.”

She’s very clearly referring to Sean. Adalind isn’t the only one who’s used sex to get what she wants. Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests are cunning, yes, it’s part of their biology. But what makes them dangerous is that they’re brazen, tenacious.

She and Sean are cut of the same cloth. They buy loyalty through political currency and if that doesn’t work… through intimacy, however manufactured.

They know the heart of people, their weaknesses and their strenghts. It’s amazes her sometimes, when people open up, wanton in their willingness, when the right people see them for who they are. Unflinching and unafraid of honesty.

Sex, she knows, gives her that. Gives _them_ that, she and Sean. That’s why she made the risky decision of sleeping with Sean _and_ Eric. Why Sean had also slept with her mother. It’s all… a bit much to think about when she’s so tired. But they have their ways. Survivors always do.

Sebastien, because he’s Sebastien, pretends he didn’t hear that, but bristles all the same. He moves on, quite smoothly, as though Adalind hadn’t spoken. “Disastrously, with the Families rising up against them… Wilhelm II, of Germany. Wesen Royals have always been the most… shall we say… irreverent. They achieved both greatness and madness, at times one at the expense of the other.”

That makes sense, Adalind thinks. “Poisoned chalice and all that, I guess.”

“Indeed.”

“Wasn’t Hitler Wesen?”

Sebastien smiles slightly. There’s no conversation to be had without Hitler being mentioned. “Yes, but he wasn’t Royal. He was Black Claw.”

“I’ve heard about Black Claw… but I never really understood how they figure into things.”

“Imperialist Wesens, they believe in their superiority and the divine right to be master of humans. They’re still around. What makes them so dangerous is that one never really knows _where_ they are and who’s working for them.”

Adalind thinks about it. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Wesens ruling over everyone?”

Sebastien looks at her. “The Council wouldn’t agree.”

“Our lives would be so much easier if we didn’t have to hide.” What a dream that would be, Adalind thinks, to live as gods used to, back in the day.

Sebastien frowns. “ _Your_ lives would be easier, yes. I can’t say the same for us.”

Adalind, for the sake of argument, and because she doesn’t shy away from inflammatory, and possibly morally reprehensible remarks, just says, “Well, that’s not my problem.”

Sebastien doesn’t agree, and his frown deepens in concern. He clearly doesn’t like where this is going.

Adalind chuckles, patting his arm. “Relax. It’s not like I’m in any position to do anything about it.”

They settle back into a comfortable silence. Sebastien, tiredness in his bones. Adalind, looking worriedly at her baby.

“My daughter is not gonna be a pawn in this game, Sebastien,” she says.

Sebastien, honestly but not without sympathy, breaks it to her none too gently. “I’m afraid that’s out of your hands now.”

 

* * *

 

 

It takes them two hours to get everything ready. In that time, Adalind managed to take a cold shower (the heater’s outdated and, by the looks of it, in danger of short-circuiting if she even attempted to turn it on), change the baby’s diapers, feed her, _and_ pack some of Elizabeth’s clothes in her bag.

She’s heading down the stairs when she hears Sebastien on the phone with Sean.

“We’re through,” Sebastien says.

Sean, on the other end, lets out a sigh. “Good. Head to Geneva Airport. A plane is waiting for you.”

“Whose?”

“A friend’s,” which isn’t much of an answer, even by Sean’s standards, but Sebastien, loyal as always, just takes it for what it is.

Meisner, waiting by the foot of the stairs, takes Adalind’s bag from her. “All ready?”

“Yeah,” Adalind says, but before Meisner could whisk her off again into the car, she holds up a hand. She thinks about it for a quick second.

She doesn’t like being kept in the dark.

“Take her for a sec, will you?” she asks Meisner and hands him the baby before he could protest.

Adalind with a purpose is an Adalind that nobody wants to stop. She has that look in her eyes that means business, and that’s what Sebastien is seeing now. Heading right towards him.

“I’ll call you back,” he tells Sean.

Before he can even _think_ about ending the call, however, Adalind had already made her way towards him. “Is that him?” she doesn’t _ask_ , she demands.

“... Yes.”

Adalind stretches out her hand. “Let me speak to him.”

“I don’t think—”

In that second, Sean tells Sebastien to hand over the phone the same time Adalind unceremoniously plucks the phone from Sebastien’s hand before he can move away.

Adalind throws Sebastien a look and Sebastien, knowing when to back off, does so immediately.

“That plane had better have first class seats and hot food.”

She can hear the smirk in Sean’s voice. _This smug asshole_. “Here I thought you’d find a dungeon more comfortable.”

Adalind, wanders away from Sebastien, huddling close to the phone. She doesn’t have time for his games. “I’m tired, Sean.”

“I know,” Sean says. To his credit, he even manages to sound sympathetic.

“You can’t possibly know.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to apologize for having a terrible family.”

Sean snorts in disbelief. “I wasn’t the one who told you to sleep with my brother.”

“It’s not about that.”

Somehow doubtful of it, Sean says, “Isn’t it?”

“I did what I had to do.”

"To get what you want,” he points out.

 _Okay this isn’t helping_. Adalind wants to throw the phone at the wall in sheer frustration. “To get my powers back, Sean.”

Sean sighs. “I know.”

“Stop saying that.” She’s growing _very tired_ of his patronizing. “You can’t know.”

Thankfully, Sean cuts to the chase. He knows when to play games too. “I won’t apologize for what I’ve done. What I’ve made you do.”

Adalind sighs, rolling her eyes. “Never change, I guess.”

She hears him smile, imagines it soft and wry. Not an expression usually directed at her but she _has_ seen it. “Never.”

Adalind wraps her arms around herself, cradling the phone close like it’s the only thing that’s keeping her together.

As much as she’s loathe to admit that it’s Sean, of all people, who’s helping her now, she _does_ acknowledge (albeit begrudgingly) that she’s soldiering through this entire mess _because_ she knows that at the end of all this, Sean’s there to see things through. He _promised_ her. That’s hardly enough but _for now_ , it is. For the next few hours, it just might be.

“Now, you come home,” Sean says, almost _declares_ it. As much a prince then as she’s ever known him.

She distantly remembers the first time she met him. Her mother introduced him as the Prince in Portland, and she expected someone regal, handsome, and in-command. He was all of those things, certainly, but the more she knew him the more she grew to detest her naivete.

He’s hardly Prince Charming. He’s a political mastermind, fueled by nothing else but his own agenda, whatever it is. Ruthless and cruel and thirsty for more.

Like her, he wants the world. And she understands that most of all. It terrified her then, and it terrifies her now, what this ambition means for both of them.

Adalind’s smile is cruel. She’s known far too many stories to even think that this will all end well. “And we’ll live happily ever after?”

Sean, she imagines, is biting back a sigh. “Be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. I’ve spent the last week giving birth and running for my life. Now you’re telling me to go back home—which isn’t even there anymore. You’re telling me to go back to you because you’re powerless here, aren’t you?” When he doesn’t reply right away, she pushes it. Just to make him squirm. To punish him, somehow, because neither Sebastien nor Meisner have deserved her vitriol. This man, though, thousands of miles away, certainly does. “ _Aren’t you?_ ”

Sean, his resolve fringed now, sounds profoundly frustrated. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, rather vehemently. She knows it’s not directed at her. Sean hates weakness, especially when he can’t do anything about it. “I can’t protect you there.”

Adalind shakes her head. It’s one thing to drive him into admission. It’s another thing to be proven right. She hates to admit it but she _wants_ a fantasy. She wants everything to go well for a change. To hear it from Sean, of all people, who refuses to bow to failure and show his flaws (of which he has _many_ ), seems to have broken something in her that the last twenty-four hours of flight and fear even managed.

She drags a hand down her face, rubbing at her eyes, soothing herself when no one else can. “It’s your fault I lost my powers in the first place.”

“It’s your fault for flying too high and getting your wings burned,” he fires back, though not as heated.

“Thanks, Homer. But the only thing I’m guilty of is thinking that you’ll ascend higher than you have,” she says, just as cruelly.

The silence on the other end of the line says that she’s found her mark. She knows how to hurt him.

After a while, she relents. No use digging up the past now. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not sorry I said what I said. We both know it’s true. I’m just sorry you got to me like this because I’m in no position to trade insults with you.”

He smirks. “Well, it was a nice apology while it lasted.”

“And will you ever apologize to me?”

“Maybe. Someday. When my regrets catch up with me.”

She snorts. “I gave birth to one of them a few days ago.” The tenderness in her voice belies her words, however. Her child is anything _but_ a cause of regret, even if it means raising hell to keep her.

“And how is she?”

“Fine. Better than the three of us, that’s for sure.”

“When you get here,” Sean says, his voice low, “I need to be… I need to know…”

Well. Now is a good a time as any. “If she’s yours?”

“Yes.”

Adalind smiles, her voice cloyingly sweet. “Don’t you trust me?”

“You know better than to ask that,” he says, knowing full well that she’s being coy. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I’m taking it personally anyway. And if she’s not yours?”

“ _If_ she’s not mine… She’s still Royal. My niece. I owe it to her for killing her father.”

Many things go unsaid, but what’s understood between them never needed to put into words anyway. What he doesn’t say is that it’s in her best interests to come home now, and she knows it. She knows she doesn’t have a choice. What she doesn’t say is the accusation that Royal blood is useful for him, in one way or another. As a bargaining chip, maybe, the political currency that he’s been so hungry for.

They say none of these things but because they know each other, they understand the language of the unspoken. This is an arrangement. Love, romance, family—all good things that may come in time. But for now, _this_ is politics.

“I knew you had something to do with that.”

Sean chuckles, a low rumble in her ear. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

“Yeah, well, looks like you had too much fun.”

“I heard she…”

Adalind sighs, turning serious. “Yes… She’s… She’s special, Sean.”

“Because she's a Hexenbiest or… something else?”

“Something else. She’s only _days_ old, Sean, and I’ve seen her do things that took time for me.”

“They’ll never rest until they get her.”

“And will you let them?”

Sean, an edge in his voice, vows, “Not if I can help it.”

Adalind smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Now, you come back to me. We’ll figure it out.”

“Is that the best you can do right now?”

“This far away from you? Yes. I can only make promises.”

“I won’t ask if you intend to keep them.”

Sean fires back, “I won’t insist that you believe me.”

Adalind laughs, truly and genuinely laughs. Something loosens in her chest. _This_ is a game she knows, and Sebastien is right. Sean is a ball and chain. Though she won’t go so far as calling him a master— _Over my dead body—_ she does, at least, acknowledge that Sean is the devil. But at least he’s a devil she knows.

“I _have_ missed you,” she tells him, and she means it.


	3. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting the pieces on the chess board. Nick and Juliette are reminded that not all is quiet on the western front. Sebastien, Adalind, and Meisner meet an exiled (small letter R) royal. Sean gets threatened, and does not take it well. At all. Monroe and Rosalee are, once again, getting roped into politics against their will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, this chapter is wayyyy longer than I thought it would be even after the edits.
> 
> The choice of a Russian royal family is inspired by a bit in canon where Sean mentions that he and his mother lived for a brief time in Russia while they were on the run. Figured they'd come across Important People while they were there.
> 
> Also, a brief reappearance of [The Priest](http://grimm.wikia.com/wiki/Last_Grimm_Standing) that Renard approached in "Last Grimm Standing" to deal with an uncooperative Löwen. (I always did wonder why he never reappeared, especially when he was used so effectively to hint at a wesen hierarchy.)

It’s been a long day at work. The dead body Wu called in earlier that day had sent Nick and Hank on a wild goose chase around the city, only to end up with next to nothing back at the precinct.

Miraculously, the case isn’t _wesen_ -related. Or maybe it is, but none of Nick’s ancestors have record of it yet.

Nick _really_ hopes it’s a normal murder this time around, or as normal murders can get without _wesen_ getting creative with their murder weapons of choice.

He opens the door to his house with a deep, bone-tired sigh, and drops the keys at the bureau by the door before he even shrugs off his jacket.

“Juliette?” he calls out. “I’m home!”

He doesn’t get an answer, but he does find Juliette sitting with a tight frown on face. She’s squinting at the computer screen in the living room.

Nick approaches her from behind, wrapping his arms around her. He’s so glad to be home.

Juliette, albeit distracted, greets him with a quick kiss to his cheek. “Hey.”

Nick burrows close, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “Had dinner yet?” he mumbles into her shirt.

Straining to hear, Juliette smiles. “Yeah, I had take-out. Left you some in the fridge.” Though she hasn’t peeled her eyes from the screen, her fingers have found their way into his hair, brushing them back. “Want me to heat up a plate?”

If he’d been a cat, he would have purred in contentment. But since he’s a full grown man who’s reminded that he’s actually pretty hungry, he pulls away. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll do it myself,” he says, and trudges into the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he asks, “What are you up to?”

Nick’s already spooned what’s left of the Thai noodles onto a plate when he realizes that Juliette hasn’t answered him.

With a frown, he peeks into the living room. Juliette is _still_ glued to the computer screen.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“I’m… not sure,” Juliette replies, worrying at her lips in thought. “I got an e-mail from your mom.”

 _Huh_. Of all the things that Juliette could have said, Nick most definitely had not expected _that_. He hadn’t heard from his mom in months.

“What did she say?” He pads over, plate of cold noodles in hand, and peeks over her shoulder at the computer.

Juliette tilts the screen a little to show him the e-mail. “I think… she’s coming back.” She looks down at the plate of noodles that’s hovering dangerously close to tipping over her shirt. “You said you were gonna heat that up.”

“Mmm,” Nick replies distractedly. “‘On the move,’” he reads, “‘See you soon.’ _Huh_ ,” he says, bemused.

Before the plate _completely_ tips over, Juliette takes it from Nick and stands up. Nick slides into Juliette’s chair, his gaze completely fixated on (and squinting _at_ , because he may need glasses) on the screen.

“Right? Does that mean what it’s _supposed_ to mean or did she get hacked?” Juliette wonders out loud before bringing the plate to the kitchen and putting it inside the microwave. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

“I hope not,” Nick calls back. He appears in the kitchen shortly after--very much like a cat who suddenly remembers that there’s food waiting for him and can’t seem to be fed without Juliette helping him along.

“Maybe she’s destroyed the, uh, things she needed to destroy,” Juliette offers, trying to sound hopeful.

“What did her last e-mail say?”

The microwave _pings_. Nick pops it open and gets the plate as Juliette wanders back into the living room to check the computer.

“Nothing,” Juliette tells him.

Nick follows suit after plucking a fork from the dish rack. He takes his first spoonful— _oh thank God, that’s good—_ as he watches Juliette click through her inbox’s interface, looking for that e-mail from so many months ago.

She finds it and shows him. “Last message was that she’s stuck somewhere because of the assassination. See?”

Nick nods thoughtfully, chewing.

“Should I reply to her?”

“You can try, yeah.”

Juliette’s fingers, poised over the keyboard, are unsure. “Um. Hm.” She tries again, and types out: “‘What do you mean?’”

If Nick had been less prepared, he would’ve snorted noodles out of his nose. He catches himself just in time, and swallows down his mouthful. “That’s straightforward enough, you think?” he asks with an indulgent grin.

“Urgh,” Juliette laughs, sheepishly deleting what she’d just typed. “Okay, never mind. I guess I can’t ask without asking _too much_ so I’ll just make up the spare bedroom just in case she drops by.”

“What if she doesn’t arrive until, I dunno, next year?”

Juliette shrugs, as if the answer’s quite obvious. “Then the room will be ready for her next year.”

Nick smiles at her, feeling a surge of adoration for this woman who did her best to stay in his life even though it’s gotten _way_ too weird recently. Still, she makes sense of it, and keeps things in stride.

He can’t help it. He kisses her. Surprised, Juliette just kisses back.

“Yum,” she laughs as she pulls away. “Grease.”

Nick grins at her. “Have I ever told you that I loved you?”

“Couple of times,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him again.

 

* * *

 

It was only a matter of time before Tavitian came calling about foiled plans and missing stowaways.

Sean gets a call he expected hours ago. It’s midnight, well past the hours he kept as a police captain but his double life doesn’t care about his rights in the labor code.

The number is encrypted, because of course it is. Sean, brandy in hand, answers it on the second ring.

“I’d hate to call you my enemy,” says a familiar voice on the other end, in heavily accented English. At the back of his head, Sean fleetingly thinks about how this call is most likely collect. He’s racking up quite a bill.

“I’d hate to call you mine,” Sean replies.

He already knows that he’s talking to Tavitian. “I kept you at your word.” Gone was the warmth that the man had for him back in Vienna. This is business, and it’s not going smoothly as far as Tavitian’s concerned.

Sean pauses to take a sip of his drink. “As have I,” he says, as casually as he could manage. There’s a rattle deep in his chest, though. It feels achingly like fear. Something that never goes away. He bites it down and chalks it up to the brandy. “Don’t take it personally. With Breslau sniffing us out before the meeting, I’m sure you can understand my apprehension.”

“I only want to know where we stand,” Tavitian bites back. He’s showing his impatience, Sean notes idly. “I’ve vouched for you with others in the Resistance. If you don’t stand with the us, you stand with the families. _Your_ family.”

Sean sits up. _Two can play at this game_. “I don’t like being threatened,” he warns. _I’m not afraid of you_.

“Bit late for that. Tell me my colleagues are wrong about you. I should have known that a _prince_ wouldn’t keep his word.”

Sean shakes his head. “This isn’t just about politics.”

Tavitian sneers. “Everything is about politics.”

Sean takes a breath. _Calm down_ , he tells himself, _reminding_ himself that plucking the right strings without breaking them takes finesse. “This is a personal matter. I want to see my child safe.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Sean holds his breath.

At last, a rustle—the sound of the phone changing hands, of Tavitian changing his mind. “Consider this your first warning,” Tavitian tells him. “I’ll take what you say and not doubt it, but we’re in this together, aren’t we?”

Without hesitation, Sean nods. “Yes.”

“Don’t forget it.”

The phone ends as unceremoniously as it began.

Increasingly, and not without the gaping maw of panic eating away at him, Sean finds that his world is getting smaller and smaller by the minute.

He downs the rest of his drink, sweeps up his car keys, and buttons his shirt back on as he heads out the door.

 

* * *

 

Sean had texted ahead the directions to a private hangar. At the side-gate leading to the air strips of the private jets, Meisner had barely slowed the car to a stop when the security personnel simply waved them through after a brief, almost disinterested, glance at their license plate.

Meisner parks the car by the specified hangar. The thunder of plane engines roar over their heads even though they’re far away from the main air strip.

The sound brings it home to them even more: they’re _almost_ out of here.

From their vantage point, they see a mid-sized private plane and very few people milling about, most of them airport personnel. Three black SUVS are parked to one side, flags of Switzerland on the hood indicating that they’re diplomatic vehicles. _Not_ Austrian, thankfully.

It _seems_ safe, but all three of them have been through enough in the last few days to know that relative calm is hardly trustworthy.

Sebastien unbuckles his seatbelt. “You’re coming with us,” he tells Meisner. It doesn’t sound like a question but he respects Meisner enough to give him room to decline.

Adalind, however, beats him to it. “He _has_ to come with us,” she insists, leaning forward until she’s wedged between the two front seats. The gaze she fixes on Meisner is almost endearing, if it weren’t so painfully stubborn.

Meisner smiles slightly. “We bonded,” he tells Sebastien.

“I can see that,” Sebastien remarks. Though deadpan, a slight huff of amusement makes it past him anyway.

“Are we getting out of here or what?” Adalind prompts them.

“Right,” Sebastien says, opening the door. “I’ll go ahead. Meisner—”

Meisner nods. “I’ll wait for your signal.”

The plane that waits for them is a small Boeing, a private plane parked in its own hangar. A gold double-headed eagle against a shield of red is painted proudly on its tail. In a brief flash of panic, Sebastien thought it was the Habsburg Reichsadler, Kronenburg heraldry inherited from their Habsburg kin. Then, he remembers: this Reichsadler is gold and red, slim and regal; the Kronenburg eagle is black, more vicious than elegant.

A man in a black attire characteristic of the _Verrat_ , is at the foot of the plane steps. He’s shrugging on his pilot uniform with his gloved hands. Sebastien would have taken him for one of Rispoli’s agents if it weren’t for the red trimmings of the mandarin collar underneath his plane captain’s uniform. _That_ , at least, is not _Verrat_.

Sebastian proceeds slowly, with as much caution as he could afford without taking too much time.

The man turns as he approaches, hearing his footsteps. His face is as unkind as his forbidding uniform. “ _Ca va?_ ”

Sebastien nods. “ _Ca va_.”

“You must be our stowaway.”

“One of three. And a half.”

The man looks over Sebastien’s shoulder at the car parked just outside the hangar. “We’re safe here,” says the man, clearly fluent in Sebastien’s body language. He’s in the business of being cautious as well. “One of the few blind spots of the Families is another Family’s affairs. They won’t look too closely if they know what’s good for them.”

Still, Sebastien doesn’t trust too easily. “Who are you with?”

“The Grand Duchess,” the man says. He gestures at his collar, pointing out the pin he wore at one of its corners that Sebastien hadn’t noticed.

Sebastien, as part of Eric’s household, intimately knows the regalia of each of the Seven, and most (if not all) of the other minor royal families, both extant and deposed. The pin he sees on the man’s collar is not Kronenberg. He has seen the symbol on wax seals— _very_ few of them—among Eric’s mail, the more important ones. The kinds of letters that bore a curse for curious and unwelcome eyes. Letters that bore authority of royalty.

He realizes that Sean is dealing with an exiled house. Spurned and, because of it, notoriously hungry for their restoration.

“She will accompany us?”

The surprise must’ve been readable on Sebastien’s face because the man smiles dryly. “She’s the Swiss Ambassador to Canada.”

“Ah,” Sebastien nods. “Business, then.”

The not- _Verrat_ pilot nods. “Perfect reason to fly across the Atlantic on short notice.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Adalind sees when she steps into the plane is the nearest plush, first-class seat she’s aching to rest in.

She pauses at the threshold as she tries to remember that every other fairytale of her childhood starts and ends with sugar-coated poison. Gingerbread houses in the middle of a forest. The house crest of an old aristocratic family posturing pomp and pageantry to hide the rot underneath.

She bites her lip. _Is this a trap?_

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Adalind jumps, her arms tightening around her daughter.

A woman comes into her view. _Where did she come from?_ Adalind’s exhaustion is creeping in at the edges and it frustrates her that try as she might, enemies can come out of the woodwork (even in a lush private plane) without her noticing.

“I apologize,” the woman says. She sounds like she means it.

Adalind shakes her head, her nerves frayed as she recovers herself. Immediately, she takes stock of this stranger.

The woman could have just as easily been a lawyer in her old firm in Portland. She’s wearing an outfit that could easily be featured in a cosmopolitan magazine. With a pang, she suddenly misses the days when she dressed just like this--made-up, her hair flowing beautifully down her back, with heels that clipped on marble floors, and the business-like countenance of someone in charge.

She can’t help but feel sorry for herself. _God, I’m tired of being vulnerable._

The woman smiles. If she notices Adalind’s scrutiny, she doesn’t look like she minds. In fact, she tilts her hips just so, her smile just _this_ side of coy, as though enjoying the attention.

“It’s—It’s fine,” Adalind hurries to reply. “Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

The woman just shrugs. If she’d taken offense, then she’d already forgiven her.

Adalind misses _that_ too—the ability to carry a commanding presence that compels the insecure and the less confident to prostrate themselves in submission.

The rustle of clothes over her shoulder tells her that Meisner and Sebastian are sticking close. From the corner of her eye, she notices that Meisner is moving close enough to shield Adalind from whatever threat this petite, well-dressed woman might pose.

Before the other shoe proverbially drops, the woman clicks her tongue. “None of that, please,” she says, very clearly addressing Meisner. “This is a civilian plane.”

Sebastien puts a hand on Adalind’s shoulder, nudging her slightly as if to say, _It’s alright. It will be alright._ Adalind, against her better judgment (or perhaps because of it), trusts him.

To his credit, Meisner complies even though he looks like it physically pains him to do so.

The woman turns her eyes to Sebastian. Her smile warms and it’s interesting to see, Adalind muses, how courtesy melts into sincerity when one immediately comes after the other. The slight shift in the woman’s features is enough to tell Adalind that while she’d been calm in her greeting, she had still been putting on airs.

There’s a breathhold of silence that asserts itself over their heads.

An absurd thought flits past the back of Adalind’s head: _I hope we don’t have to shoot her. That scarf looks like cashmere._

Then at last, they shift. They thaw.

Meisner shoulders past Adalind and moves to the seat nearest the open door. He settles his bag on the seat next to him with what feels like open territorial hostility.

Even Adalind knows that Meisner is pushing the laws of courtesy. When she glances at Sebastien, the slight grimace on his face tells Adalind as much.

This is bad form.

 _Well, fuck form_ , Adalind wants to say.

But before she does, Sebastien is already moving past her as well. He approaches the woman, stops at a respectful distance, and nods deeply. Reverently.

 _She's royalty_ , Adalind thinks. _Another one_.

“Ma’am,” Sebastien greets. “We’re grateful that you could spare a few seats for us.”

“None of that as well,” the woman tuts. “You’re all tired,” she tells Adalind and even Meisner. “Please. Rest. We’ll leave immediately.”

Adalind fully intends to but not before getting a handle on the situation. She can’t really sleep without knowing what’s going on. “I’m sorry for sounding rude but… Who are you?”

Sebastien clears his throat. He turns to Adalind. “If I may introduce,” his hand gestures from her to the woman. “Her Imperial Highness, Grand Duchess Alexandra Ivanova of the House of Romanov.”

His introduction is so solemn with ceremony that Adalind is almost tempted to laugh if she weren’t so surprised.

They have _Verrat_ snapping at their heels and here’s Sebastien, still mindful of courtly etiquette.

Adalind shakes her head. “Like… Anastasia?”

The woman— _Alexandra—_ just chuckles. “Cousin, twice removed. God rest her soul.” Her eyes briefly flit heavenward in a gesture that seems more mechanical than sincere. Alexandra’s too young to have known Anastasia personally, after all.

“This keeps getting better and better,” Adalind mutters under her breath.

“I do hope so,” Alexandra says. “Or I’d have word with my attendants. Please. Make yourself comfortable,” she tells Adalind.

Before Adalind can reply, Alexandra had already turned to Sebastien. Just like that, she’s out of the picture. She would’ve grumbled if she hadn’t been so thankful that she can finally drop into a window seat and stay there for the next twelve hours.

So, she does. She takes the seat across the aisle from Meisner, settles her daughter in the seat beside her, and just… _sinks_ , feeling every ache in her bones.

Adalind leans against the plane wall. She keeps her hand on the baby, making sure her daughter’s nestled in properly. The mild rumble underneath her feet tells her that soon enough they’ll be out of here, out of Europe. Soon enough, she’ll see only the skies.

Across from her, Meisner is fussing over his own things. The click of locks and the jostling of cargo adds to the din, lulling Adalind into a sense of calm and quiet.

Two rows down, towards the back of the plane, she hears the quiet conversation between Sebastien and Alexandra. They’re speaking in heavily accented English. Adalind knows they could have just spoken in French but they don’t. For her, and for Meisner.

“It’s been too long,” Alexandra says to Sebastien.

“Indeed, ma’am.”

Outside, the bustling crew is a reassuring flurry of noise and urgency. They’re about to take off.

The plane hatch closes. The air hisses in the cabin. The quiet deepens. The man from outside lingers by the curtains leading to the cockpit.

“Michel, my pilot,” comes Alexandra’s voice. “You’ve met.”

“We have,” says Sebastien. “Thank you for having us, ma’am.”

The pilot gives a final nod and disappears past the curtains and into the cockpit.

“I have to admit that it’s been a while since I’ve heard from a Kronenberg.” Something else goes unsaid: _Since a Renard remembered that we exist._ “Didn’t expect it to be the _bastard_ Renard but,” Alexandra shrugs, “here we are. A life owed is a life owed. Anyway, please do make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be in the suite at the end of the plane. Water, food, champagne, wine… have your fill.”

Adalind perks up a little. “I’ll take you up on that,” she calls out without needing to rise from her seat.

She hears Alexandra’s answering chuckle and Sebastien’s low murmur of apology.

“Hey, she offered,” Adalind calls back.

Alexandra clicks her tongue, humor in her voice. “I _did_ offer, Sebastien.”

Meisner keeps his silence. He’s already sinking deep into his own seat, arms folded across his chest. Adalind thinks he looks rather like a petulant child who’d been put on time out.

Adalind catches his eyes. “Everything okay?” she mouths at him.

Meisner glances at the cockpit, then at Alexandra and Sebastien still huddled close in conversation, and replies, just as silently: “ _Verrat._ ”

Before her wits kick in with panic, Sebastien arrives and claims the entire row behind Meisner.

“I hear your silence,” Sebastien says without even looking at them. He’s shrugging off his coat, balling it up in a pillow, and effectively looks like a very tired bird assembling his makeshift nest for the night. “What’s going on?”

Adalind and Meisner trade looks that feel absurdly like blame. _You started it_ , Adalind says with her slightly widened eyes and a quick raise of her eyebrows.

It’s almost unsettling how quickly they’d fallen into this dynamic: Adalind and Meisner, the errant children, and Sebastien their long-suffering single parent herding them along, telling them which berries they found in the proverbial forest are safe to eat.

When no answer seems to present itself, Sebastien lets out a deep-seated sigh and turns around, facing them both.

Adalind sits up and looks over the back of her seat to check if the Grand Duchess was still within earshot. She had already disappeared into her suite.

“She has a bed in there,” Adalind grouses.

“It’s her plane,” Sebatien points out.

Adalind only sighs.

Meisner clears his throat. “She’s also traveling with _Verrat_.”

The look that Sebastien levels Meisner with is heavy, withering, and so very tired of being second-guessed. “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to trust me.”

“No offense,” Adalind tells him, not at all apologetic.

Sebastien lets it slide. “For the Resistance, _Verrat_ is _Verrat_. For the Royals, the rules are… more complicated.”

Meisner groans. Adalind, taking pity on Sebastien, shushes him with a look.

“All _Verrat_ are enemies because all Royals are enemies, correct?” Sebastien asks Meisner.

Meisner’s pointed look is affirmative enough.

“This is mostly true for the Seven Families,” Sebastien goes on to explain, “but the Romanovs consider theirs as the White Guard. Romanov loyalists that have protected the pretenders to the Russian Empire since the fall of the Czar during the Revolution.”

Adalind squints, trying to keep track of the convoluted web of loyalties with a mental map. It’s nowhere near comprehensible, and perhaps nowhere near completion either. “And… this makes them the good guys?”

“Well, no,” Sebastien says with a slight frown as he settles into his seat. “White Guard serve only the Romanovs. We call them _Verrat_ because technically they serve royalty but they’ll never answer a call from Rispoli. Viktor has no power here. The White Guard serves only one family.”

“Protect them against what?” asks Meisner.

“Take your pick,” Sebastien shrugs. “Other families. Other _Verrat._ … Marxists.”

“So,” Meisner interjects. “We’re running away from Royals and straight into another Royal? That’s the plan?”

Loyal to the last, Sebastien only says, “It’s not in our position to question.”

Meisner gives him a look. “You know why I ask. It’s in my position to question when I’m forced to choose a side I don’t know.”

Sebastien bites back another sigh that Adalind knows is just bubbling underneath the surface.

The not-quite-so riveting story of the Royal Families are written on a Wikipedia page somewhere, cold hard facts of this year, or that year, the end of one war and the beginning of another. But _wesen_ history had always existed between the pages, in the liminal dimensions between reality and fantasy that even Adalind has yet to completely understand.

Sebastien and Sean (and even Meisner, to an extent) live and survive where the two worlds converge—a chaotic cesspool that feeds the books of both history and whimsy.

There are seven houses, Sebastien explains, and Adalind knows that three of them are from Europe: Windsor, Kronenberg, and Bourbon. The Romanovs could have been the fourth but a bloody revolution ( _not bloody enough, it seems_ , Meisner pipes in, gesturing at the lush private plane) had lopped off most of their heads and dragged them into obscurity after nearly four hundred years in power.

It’s a stalemate. The world divided among the Seven is the point of least conflict and most benefit. Any more and any less than that and the world might just find itself in the middle of another world war.

“It all dates back to—”

“The Geneva Convention, yeah, I know,” Adalind interrupts, a tad too impatiently than she actually intends. “The delicate balance of the Seven or whatever that is. Heard all about it.”

“Well,” Sebastien continues without missing a beat. “The Romanovs want a piece of that. Again.”

Adalind frowns. “An eighth family?”

“They want to be the seventh.”

“So they’re bumping off one of the others.”

Sebastien nods. “Indeed.”

“ _Please_ tell me it’s Kronenberg,” Adalind says, and _really_ means it.

Sebastien nods again.

They sink into the far-flung _what if’s_ of a world order without the Kronenbergs and ease off into relative quiet. The pilot chirps announcements in the speaker. Soon enough, a deep rumble crawls underneath their feet.

They’re taking off.

After a while, Meisner murmurs, “I hate politics.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Adalind remarks drily as she buckles her seatbelt and secures her daughter in the seat beside her.

“By the way…” Sebastien says as he buckles himself in as well. “They need our hair.”

“What now?” Meisner grumbles.

“Decoys,” Sebastien explains. “We need decoys.”

Adalind only grunts in acknowledgment. “I’m going to sleep for ten hours. Shave my head if you need to. Just don’t wake me up.”

The answering sounds of agreement from Sebastien and Meisner are drowned out by the roar of engine. The ground gives way underneath them and they plunge headlong into rest. Into the promise of home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The private suite is considerably less crowded. Alexandra sits at the foot of the double bed installed there, toeing off her shoes as she balances her phone between her shoulder and her ear.

“I have them.”

“ _Spasiba_ , Alexandra,” comes the reply. A voice lower and deeper than she remembers. The bastard Renard, Alexandra’s father had called him. _The mongrel_.

Alexandra clicks her tongue. “If you had told me sooner then I would have dispatched more decoys. As it is, I can only find four sets. You didn’t give me enough time, my dear. I would have liked to have been more thorough.”

Sean almost sounds contrite. “I appreciate all that you’ve done. Where are the others headed?”

“Hong Kong, Brazil, Moscow, and New York.” She chuckles. “Should that be enough for your cousin?”

He’s determined enough to exhaust all of his resources to cover all bases. Best to give him as _many_ bases as possible.

She falls back onto the bed, her dark hair fanning out on the sheets. “Is it beneath him to send a welcoming party to anticipate my arrival in Vancouver?”

Sean smiles. “Nothing is beneath him.”

Alexandra sighs. “I’d missed this game. The subterfuge, the intrigue.” She makes it sound so easy, to enjoy something that has brought only hardship for him.

He’s almost envious of her ease. “You’ll be ready for them,” he says.

“Why of course. We didn’t survive this long without exhausting all of _our_ resources as well, you know,” Alexandra says with a smile.

The Romanov fashion of dynastic ambition (and hubris) is legendary. Bloody revolution or no, they still had a wealth of resources to draw from. And draw they did--to survive, even if it means losing too much of themselves.

Quickly and almost mechanically, they breeze through the details in quick fashion.

The decoys, she tells him, are booked on flights that are conspicuous enough to implicate other families. The commercial plane to Rio de Janeiro bears the coat of arms of the House of Braganza, the deposed yet very much _alive_ Royals of Brazil. The plane to Moscow bears the Russian Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs who, as Viktor may probably know, is the most important lobbyist for Russian industries in China, where the nominally deposed Royalty still holds the reins in the country’s only political party. To New York—and here she almost sounds regretful—carries one of the executives of the Rockefellers who, as Sean remembers it, are one of only three American families once called Royal (and are still very much interested in restoring their seat among the Seven).

The decoys are supposed to throw off the scent. Viktor has nearly limitless resources at his disposal and would undoubtedly catch up soon but maybe, Sean thinks, _maybe_ this will buy them some time. Let his cousin chase after dead ends, especially if it means spreading his resources across the four corners of the world.

“I’m impressed,” Sean tells her. And he is. He _had_ hoped to tap into Alexandra’s network, but he may have underestimated her guile.

Alexandra’s almost proud to hear of the surprise in Sean’s voice. They haven’t seen each other in _decades_. They’ve gone quite a ways from playing with their expensive toys, their expensive lives. _This_ , she seems to say, _is what everyone’s been missing_.

It’s becoming clear to Sean that this alliance may have a heavy cost down the line, heavier than he first expected.

“Mm,” Alexandra replies thoughtfully. “Believe me, I’m having the time of my life. Diplomacy can get _so_ tedious. I hardly get to do anything fun like this.”

“You should’ve been in this game since the beginning.”

Alexandra smiles. “All in due time. I haven’t missed much, have I?” Without missing a beat, she changes the topic, in that casual way only the most tactful employ with the double-edged graciousness that says, _I’m playing this down to show you how power comes easily to me. But this does not come cheaply._  

Sean hears it loud and clear.

“The child, is she…” Alexandra goes on to ask.

A pause, and then: “Mine,” Sean says, almost asserts it.

“Royal.” It needn’t be said but Alexandra, true to her reputation, wants clarity. Everything, put on the record.

“Yes.”

Alexandra takes a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Tell me,” she starts, slowly as though dipping her toes in the deep end. “Are we friends?”

“We could be,” Sean replies, just as cautiously.

“This settles the score, doesn’t it? Your mother saved my father’s life and for that we’re eternally grateful. Now that we’ve helped you recover your child, I expect that the score is settled.”

“I believe so too.”

“Good,” Alexandra declares, in a no-nonsense tone that as business-like as the rest of her. “Now we can start a relationship on equal footing.”

“I’m glad you agree. Looking forward to seeing you again.”

“As am I. I still have very fond memories of you.”

“Do you?” Sean sounds both wry and wary. “I was 13 when we last saw each other, Alexandra.”

“And you don’t remember me anymore, my dear Johannes?”

Sean laughs despite himself. “Sean,” he corrects her. He hasn’t been called _Johannes_ in decades. “Please.”

“Ah. You’ve finally chosen a name from the five… or was it six? Anglicized as well, yes? Like a true exile.” She chuckles, as though it’s an inside joke. And it is. From one exiled Royal to another. “I still remember when you’d insisted I call you by your _entire_ name.”

“I had seven,” Sean recalls, _Heinrich Johannes Maximilian Frederick Charles Albert Louis._ Frederick, Sean remembers, had been one of them on the off-chance that he needed to ascend to his brother’s role as Crown Prince. Which is currently the case—a realization that momentarily leaves him winded.

The reminder brings it home to him even more: without his brother, he is now the rightful heir. Should he become king, he could choose to take his father’s name as Frederick VIII.

The Queen had gone through all the trouble of chasing him and his mother out of Europe but in the end, it was all for nothing. Her fears had come true. The bastard Renard, by all rights, will become king in his brother’s stead.

He should feel victorious, but he finds that of the victory he’d craved he could summon only bitterness. _All that running, and for what?_

Suddenly, he feels all of his years deep in his bones. He and his mother have done so much to flee, to survive, when all it takes for them to find peace is to fight, and conquer, and burn everything in their path.

“Sean it is, then,” Alexandra concedes, startling Sean from straying further into the gloom of his thoughts. “How very American.”

Sean musters a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his own ears. “Didn’t you throw a tantrum when I said I didn’t like polo? I’ve grown even _less_ European now, after all these years.”

“I do  _so_ love polo,” she recalls with a soft chuckle.

“You loved winning at games you were really good at,” he cares to remind her, almost grateful for the distraction of idle memories.

Alexandra doesn’t pretend to be apologetic. “Still do.” She sighs wistfully. “If only we had lived in a time of peace.”

“No use thinking about the past,” Sean says. “From here, we can always move forward.”

“That remains to be seen… Sean.” She tests the name on her lips. It sounds abrupt in her accent, like a quick drop off a cliff. “But I’m excited to find out. I’ll be in touch.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

After office hours, the spice shop is a mess. A minefield of breakable bottles, jars, and bowls that Monroe could’ve easily plowed through if he weren’t compelled to stay at one place, near the shelves, because stacks and stacks of boxes wedged him in.

Holding two very similar jars containing _very_ similar reddish-orange powder, Monroe calls out behind his shoulder. “Would it to be too dramatic to change our system or are we open-minded about using something like, I don’t know, the Dewey Decimal system maybe? I just think it’s…”

He trails off when he realizes that he hasn’t heard a peep from Rosalee since she answered the phone half an hour ago.

With a frown, Monroe sets down the jars on the shelves (taking great care to remember which is which), and turns around to look for her.

He finds Rosalee leaning against the open door to the back room, a worried expression on her face. “So,” she starts. “That was Ian.”

“... Who? Oh. _That_ Ian. I was hoping you meant the pizza delivery guy.”

Rosalee throws him a look. “The pizza guy is Ivan. Not Ian.”

“ _Right_. I keep getting those names mixed up for some reason.”

“ _Some_ reason?”

“Ian’s not my favorite name, okay?”

Rosalee has the good grace to humor him. “You’re kinda cute when you’re jealous. Totally unnecessary, by the way, but I appreciate it.”

Monroe bristles. “So. What did Ian want?”

“It’s…” she begins, then quickly stops to look around, glancing at the door to make sure it’s locked. “He needs our help.”

Monroe grimaces. “Don’t tell me.”

“He’s not in trouble,” Rosalee rushes to reassure him.

“Okay, good. Because I really think Nick would only agree to harboring a fugitive, like, _once_.”

“He needs our help keeping an eye on someone.”

“Okay…” Monroe squints, unsure if that’s good or bad. “Fingers crossed it’s not anyone dangerous.”

So naturally, Rosalee drops the other shoe. “The Captain.”

Alarmed, Monroe’s eyes widen. “ _Nick’s_ Captain?”

“Yep.”

“What did he do now?”

“Ian didn’t say but… I don’t know, maybe it’s something Resistance-related.”

“Oh my God,” Monroe shakes his head in disbelief. “ _Again?_ Wait, isn’t he a Prince?”

“You mean the only member of a Royal Family in this continent who also happens to be in _this_ city whom we’ve _also_ interacted with a couple of times? Yes, nice of you to remember that, Monroe. It totally slipped my mind.”

Monroe grimaces. “Please don’t tell me this favor for Ian ends with you needing to assassinate the guy.”

“Me? They wouldn’t ask me to do that.”

“Right. Of course they won’t. They’re the good guys.”

“That,” Rosalee nods, “and they have well-trained assassins they can send over anytime they want.”

“Not helping.”

Rosalee shrugs sheepishly. “I’m just saying.”

Monroe sighs and picks up the jars again, fully intending to get back to work, until: “He’s the opposite of ‘not dangerous’, by the way,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You think maybe we should tell Nick?”

“Nah.” Then, he pauses. “I don’t know, should we?”

“The prince _is_ his Captain, right?”

“Okay, I don’t think Nick owns him.”

“You know what I mean. Besides, he’s kind of… a friend?”

Monroe isn’t so sure about that. “Is he, though?”

“Not like we invite him over for sleepovers or anything, but I don’t know. He did help us recover Nick from Baron Samedi, right? That was kind of nice of him.”

“Ivan the pizza delivery guy gives me extra olives when I ask.”

Rosalee gives him a look.

“Okay when I _beg_ and give him a big tip. But that doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

She levels him with _another_  look. “Extra olives and getting your best friend back from potentially becoming a zombie monster aren’t really the same.”

Monroe shrugs.

Rosalee tries again. “What about when he brought Juliette out of that coma?”

“Why _did_ he do that?”

“Because _maybe_ he’s on our side?”

“I don’t know, he _did_ steal the key that one time. Remember that? Maybe he’s a work… mate? Colleague? Peer?”

“A prince who’s also a police captain is your peer?”

Monroe shrugs again. “You know what I mean. Not _my_ peer but… _our_ peer. The friend group, as a collective. I don’t know, maybe our collective importance to the politics of the complicated _wesen_ world makes us kind of equal in stature. Nick as a Grimm already gives us like 60-to-70-percent of fire power. _Anyway_ maybe he’s an ally.”

Rosalee doesn’t look too convinced by that but she’s starting to get a headache just thinking about all the _what if_ ’s that are barely within reach. “Maybe,” she says instead, and starts picking up supplies that need organizing too. “ _Anyway_ we’re getting off-topic.”

They work silently for a few minutes. The steady _clink_ of jars being placed carefully and systematically on the shelves is the only sound that disturbs them.

That, and the very _noisy_ way that silence gets when it’s trying very hard not to be broken.

Finally, it’s Monroe that gives first. “Did you say yes? To Ian?”

Thankful that it was _Monroe_ that picked up the conversation again, Rosalee set down the clipboard she was only _pretending_ to peruse. “Couldn’t really say no, you know?”

Monroe tries to put up a fight. “But… But why not? You’ve said no loads of times… to me.”

Rosalee just rolls her eyes. “Okay, the jealousy thing was cute for five seconds.” Then she pulls herself up on the counter, sitting right at the edge. Who’s she kidding? She’s not getting _anything_ done after that phone call. “This isn’t about me, anyway. This is about the Resistance.”

They both know that nothing distracts her more than a stubborn mystery.

So, like any good partner, Monroe takes the bait. “Which you aren’t part of anymore. … Right?”

Rosalee shakes her head as though it really _does_ pain her to cause him this much worry. “It’ll _always_ be a part of me,” she says softly, an apology wrapped in truth.

“I know, I know,” Monroe sighs. His own way of saying that she doesn’t need to apologize because her passion is one of the reasons why he fell in love with her in the first place. “It’s just…” he flounders for a moment, gesturing helplessly at something vague and inarticulate that he can’t quite place. “I thought the draw of migrating to the US was that we don’t have to be involved in that conflict anymore. Pretty sure that’s why my great-great-great-great-grandfather joined George Washington’s war effort anyway.”

Maybe it’s his honesty or his resignation that does it but whatever it is, Rosalee suddenly feels this great big urge to hug him.

So, she does.

She lowers herself onto the floor, inches her way past the opened boxes and the fragile jars littered every which way. She wraps her arms around him and holds on tight, because there really is nothing else to say.

They bicker. They disagree. But always, _always_ , they bring out the best in each other. And when the worst comes, they’re quick to see that too.

Monroe, _God help him_ , loves her. Even when he’s afraid, he loves her first. He can drag his feet until he’s sore but he’ll follow her all the same. And she loves him for it.

“I believe in this, okay?” she says, pressing her face against his shirt. “Freddie did too.”

Monroe, because he’s Monroe, can’t put up a fight when she’s burrowing against him like that. He can only sigh, hold her hands where they’re clasped around him, and make sure she’s holding on tight. “Yeah, well, look where that got him.”

“I know you’re worried but… I try to do my part.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he _really_ means it. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s good that you care about _wesen_ politics.”

Rosalee smiles, taking the small victory for what it is. “Thank you. I think.”

“Even when you shouldn’t.”

Rosalee gapes at him.

“I’m just saying. It’s more trouble than it’s worth and besides, it’s not like we can put up much of a fight if the Captain thinks we’re a threat. The guy is in command of an _entire_ police precinct.”

Rosalee sighs. He has a point. “And of Nick.”

Monroe gives her a look that says, _Oh yeah, how can we forget that small detail._ He lets out a breath. “This is getting too complicated.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Portland’s getting _way_ too weird these days. Weirder than usual.”

Rosalee agrees. Then, trying to push her luck, ventures further. “So… should we tell him?”

Monroe sighs, wondering for the _nth_ time how she manages to work her way around his defenses and gets what she wants even when he’s already _said_ that he won’t do it. “Yeah, okay, I’ll call him. Just let me finish my inventory of the thirty-seven strains of ginger in these shelves. I’m on a roll.”

“This could be an emergency situation, Monroe,” she says with a smile. But she does disentangle herself from him anyway.

Monroe nods at all the work they’ve neglected to do. Because of _one_ phone call. “So could a disorganized shelf. I’m just looking out for you here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The unnamed church of indeterminate religion (though there _is_ a crucifix here somewhere) is the same as Sean remembers it. Dark, and foreboding, as though everyone that ever went there never left.

In a way, this is true.

Sean knows the drill. Wait till after business hours before opening one of the side doors with an innocuous key, get inside a confessional, and wait some more.

It’s quarter-past-three in the morning. Even the most desperate souls don’t come to _this_ church at that hour.

In the confessional, the dim light of the old lamps in the church floor cast shadows on his face.

There’s a brief _click_ of a latch on wood. A brief _scriff_ of clothing, and the confessional window is slid open.

“Bit late for a confession, parishioner,” says the priest.

Sean should be kneeling but he’s not here to _serve_ or seek absolution. Instead, he sits with his legs crossed and faces the priest without the humility expected of him.

If the priest notices a change in his manner, he doesn’t comment. But Sean does recognize that the priest had taken note. In the dim light, a flicker of the priest’s eyes linger on the way he sits. A brief rustle of cloth and Sean knows that the priest is sitting upright—alert, as he should be.  _Good._

“My guilty conscience won’t let me sleep,” Sean offers.

The priest nods, but his wariness hasn’t softened. “Tell me.”

Sean dives right to it. With neither reverence nor subservience, he declares, “I seek an audience with the Council.”

The priest turns to face him. For the first time, Sean sees him, fear and all, leaning closer to the bare light that filters in. He’s not much older than Sean, but the brief flicker of something else… something _wesen_ … shows itself plainly in his eyes.

“Has one of our own strayed from the path once again?” asks the priest.

Sean remembers the last time he was here, when a Löwen strayed too far and was in need of a little humility. Back then, Sean _sought_ and the priest _giveth_.

This time, Sean has demands. His birthright sings in his blood.

“One of our own is tempting fate,” he answers cryptically.

The priest bristles. As expected, he leans on dogma and prays for its resilience. “ _Wesen_ law is _wesen_ law. We seek only balance in this world. Anyone who strays beyond what is allowed must be punished.”

Sean is getting impatient but he knows, just by coming here, that _this_ is part of the game. “The needs of the time call for… innovation.”

“Do they?” the priest replies archly. “Your Grimm has done well to keep the peace in this city. He must. It is his temperance that keeps the Council from seeing him as a threat.”

“The Grimm… is fair, and just,” Sean admits as much. “But he’s severely limited by… what is allowed.”

With that, the priest’s panic rises to the surface. “Don’t overreach yourself,” he asserts, and Sean almost laughs at the attempt. Sean is here for ceremony, not for permission. Nothing the priest can possibly say would sway him. “We don’t seek higher stations.”

They both know what this means.

The Council is a distant authority. A benevolent abstraction that _guides_ and _admonishes_ accordingly. The Council is _not_ summoned unless someone enforces archaic laws and _demands_ it.

Sean, in the few times he’d sought their help through _this_ man, and _this_ church, had approached with caution. They know of his lineage but ever since he knelt for the first time and _asked_ as expected of any lowly _wesen_ , the Council had been appeased and thought him safe.

Tonight, however, Sean does not seek absolution. The utter lack of humility in the proud set of his jaw and the tightness of his shoulders says as much.

“That is for the Council to decide,” Sean says, asserting the authority the Council had long thought to be dormant.

When he speaks, he does so with the low-level voice of a man assuming his place. He sits as Royals do, hand clasped at the knee where his legs cross. His father’s ring catches the gleam of the dim light.

With foreboding, the priest sees it for what it is. “I speak with their authority.”

For a moment, Sean is quiet. A brief standoff: the will of the priest and the force of the prince, in the swathe of darkness that surrounds them in that confessional.

Then in frustration, Sean's hand shoots out and rattles the wooden partition. The sound is a thunderclap, resonating even against the marble and concrete of the halls outside.

The priest jumps back. In the dark, Sean sees him quiver for all of a second before the priest hurries (almost desperately) to school himself back to sagacity.

_Too late for that, Father._

“You are a _messenger_ ,” Sean bites back. His own fury flashes across his eyes, manifesting the _‘biest_ that bubbles just underneath the surface. “You are _not_ the Council. Tell them. I seek an audience.”

“And in what capacity?” The priest recovers himself. “As one of ours, or one of _them_?”

Sean sits back, and the half- _woge_ of his eyes ripple back to normalcy. Once again, he’s green-eyed, human, and polite. “As both.”

Processing this, the priest shakes his head. “You play with fire,” he hisses. Gone is the attempt at serenity. What remains is the priest, foundering, desperate to de-escalate what is _clearly_ beyond his station.

A slow smirk unfurls itself on Sean’s lips. “I’m a Zauberbiest and a Royal. Fire is in my blood.”

“We shall see,” says the priest, finally relenting. _Finally_ playing messenger, as he must.

The last rite is the sign of the cross and the priest does so, with fingers that betray nothing but a slight tremble. He gives Sean his blessing, worthless though it may be at this point. “As it was,” he says, clinging to sacrament now under threat.

Sean, because he doesn’t want to burn his bridges, dips his head as graciously as he could but there’s arrogance in him that fits perfectly on his shoulders. “So it shall be again,” he responds.

The words ring hollowly, followed by the priest quickly taking his leave.

Sean sits alone in the confessional. He takes a deep breath. And another, and another.

What is it that Caesar says? The die is cast? The Rubicon has been crossed?

Sean rises to his feet and shuts the confessional door behind him with a resounding _bang_. The time of reverence is over.


End file.
